


lean on, lean on

by Anonymous



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Discussion of character death, M/M, Mild Exhibition Kink, Season 7 Day 66, i legit don't have excuses for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27953882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The wind rustles through the grass. The truck’s engine ticks as it cools, keeping time; a flock of starlings flutters overhead, perching for a half-second on the telephone wires that stretch past Conner’s house before they take off again, heading north.Conner puts two patties on the grill.
Relationships: Conner Haley/Sebastian Telephone
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	lean on, lean on

**Author's Note:**

> Steaks fans, I am so sorry. 
> 
> CWs - discussion of death, character injury (hit by pitch), alcohol (responsibly consumed)

Conner already has the grill going in the front yard when Sebastian pulls up in his truck. The sun is slowly starting to turn everything gold—the fallow field, the thin clouds crawling across the sky, the side of Conner’s house where it stands, painted blue and lonesome against the farm he’d inherited. Sebastian’s truck is red, the paint half-oxidized; Conner knows Jessica had been the one who’d cared about how nice the truck looked, and with her gone the truck had barely been serviced in six seasons.

Conner doesn’t know who let Sebastian get behind the wheel, but he’s arrived here safe, so Conner can’t exactly complain. He knows, without having to tap into the Dadconscious, that Sebastian is here because he’s scared and tired and hurt, coming to Conner like an injured bird to roost despite that Telephone pride. The truck’s engine cuts, and for a long moment Conner watches out of the corner of his eye as Sebastian doesn’t move, hand on the gearshift.

The wind rustles through the grass. The truck’s engine ticks as it cools, keeping time; a flock of starlings flutters overhead, perching for a half-second on the telephone wires that stretch past Conner’s house before they take off again, heading north.

Conner puts two patties on the grill.

The drivers’ side door opens; Sebastian slides out, feet soft on the gravel driveway. Sebastian Telephone isn’t Texas the same way Conner is, wasn’t born of the dirt and the blue summer sky and the smell of manure, but he was born in Texas just the same. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, but he looks like he could, wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and hat pulled low over his eyes, hair tufted out around his ears and at the back of his neck. There’s a bruise on his left shoulder, black and purple and not healing.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything, just leans on the closed door of the truck.

“Beers in the cooler on the porch,” Conner says.

“If it’s Coors bullshit I’m walking,” Sebastian says back, but it’s too tired to be a threat.

Conner snorts.

He catches the soft edge of Sebastian’s half-smile, and then, as if it takes every ounce of energy he can summon, Sebastian slouches over to the porch steps; he sits heavily, and then twists around to grab a beer from the Coleman cooler nestled against the porch railing. Conner tosses Sebastian his keys; they jangle as Sebastian catches them and shuffles through the half-dozen keys to find the inconspicuous bottle opener, pops the lid off. It clatters on the wood step of the porch, and Conner doesn’t tell him to do anything about it. If they were at Foreman Conner would tell him to clean it up, but this isn’t a shared space insofar as Conner is simply allowing Sebastian to carve out his own space from Conner’s, between the blue sky and the brown earth, a place to belong if he wants it.

Tomorrow there’s supposed to be an eclipse. Conner can’t shake the feeling, somewhere deep in his chest, that Sebastian is going to die, and the space he carves out for himself tonight will be left empty and hollow, but Conner can’t bring himself to care. He’ll let Sebastian do what he needs to, and figure his own problems out on his own time.

Conner flips the burgers.

Sebastian isn’t someone who enjoys hops, Conner knows, but he drinks the beer anyway, slow and thoughtful like everything else in this sleepy place, and doesn’t say anything.

“Bun toasted?”

“Sure.”

Conner checks the burgers and then wanders into the house to grab fixings, leaving the door open so he can watch the back of Sebastian’s head from his kitchen. Two plates, lettuce, sliced tomatoes and onions, ketchup and mustard; Sebastian pulls his hat off, leans back, props his elbows on the top stair. The sunlight limns his hair with gold.

He wanders out again, watches Sebastian watch him. Builds the burgers. Turns the gas off, brushes the grill down. The tomatoes are the same heritage variety his mom used to grow on the east side of the house, where they’d get enough sun but be protected from the worst of the summer heat, but the lettuce and onions are store-bought. He doesn’t put mustard on Sebastian’s.

Conner sits next to Sebastian—the step creaks slightly under his weight—and hands the plate to Sebastian, who takes it and balances it on his knees.

“Thanks,” Sebastian says. “Beer?”

“Now you’re in charge of the beer?”

“You gonna stop me?” Sebastian twists to grab another beer, because they both know Conner wouldn’t stop him. Conner watches the muscles under his bruised-up shoulder flex, and then looks away again, over the horizon. Sebastian hands him the beer; their fingers brush.

_I’d never stop you,_ Conner does not say. “Keys,” he says instead, and Sebastian presses Conner’s keys into the flat of Conner’s palm. Sebastian’s hands are almost as big as his own but his fingers are slimmer, palm smaller. Conner knows those hands; knows how capable they are around the shaft of a bat—

Sebastian pulls his hand back and leans against the stairs again. There are six inches between them; Conner knows those six inches well, spent most of last summer refinishing the deck even though it hadn’t strictly needed refinishing, just for something to do with his hands. Conner pops the bottlecap off, sets it carefully on the edge of the porch where he won’t forget it. They eat their burgers together in silence as the sun slides down to sleep.

“Did you eat at all today?” Conner says, watching Sebastian devour his burger.

“No,” Sebastian says. “Couldn’t keep anything down. Burger’s good though.”

“Good,” Conner says, and stacks their now-empty plates to set aside. The sky is slowly turning red and orange, dark blue creeping in from the east; the lights on the highway two miles away flick on. Conner wipes his hands on a rag and hands it to Sebastian, who wipes his hands off too.

“My sister called,” Sebastian says, abruptly. “You hear she got unshelled?”

“Yeah.” Who hadn’t? Jessica Telephone, returned and glorious. It hadn’t been her fault she’d left Dallas, but it still stings a bit anyway. Conner imagines it stings worse for Sebastian in a bittersweet sort of way: his alternate twin, still so popular elsewhere in the world, radiant and triumphant. Conner knows they’re not close, this Sebastian and this Jessica, but from what he knows they both do the best they can.

“She said she’d come visit, if I wanted.” Sebastian’s fingers twist in the side of his joggers. His voice is nervous, but not uncertain. “I—said she didn’t have to. I don’t think it’s fair to force her to watch her brother die again.”

“Who says you’re going to die?” Conner says, but he _knows,_ in the awful, certain kind of way, that tomorrow Sebastian is going to be incinerated, and that there will be nothing Conner can do about it. Sebastian gives him a look that Conner does not acknowledge. Conner touches the bruise with the very tip of his finger; Sebastian doesn’t flinch, but he does blink, all three eyes flickering closed. His skin is warm. Conner hates how the bruise looks under his finger, hates how he can’t do anything about it, about the sword of Damocles hanging over Sebastian’s neck named Jaylen Hotdogfingers.

Sebastian raises an eyebrow.

Conner frowns. “This isn’t a death sentence. Brat.”

“Whatever you say, _daddy_ ,” Sebastian says with a roll of his eyes, and—

Conner knows it’s sarcastic. It has to be sarcastic; Sebastian Telephone had been sweet before the alternate decree but sharper afterward, acerbic in a way Conner hadn’t quite known how to handle. It’s not even the first joke Sebastian’s made about Conner having ‘daddy energy,’ or whatever. It’s not even the first time Conner has called Sebastian a brat, either, because he is, and Conner tells the truth. Still, though. Here? Now? Conner can feel the warmth of Sebastian’s skin, six inches away, and nothing really feels like a joke, anymore, and Conner is tired of politely looking the other way when Sebastian winks at him, because half-joking means he’s half-serious and the sun is setting and there is a voice in the back of Conner’s head that says _take care of your boy_ and he’s pretty sure it’s not the Dadconscious but— 

But. Conner takes care of his people. That’s how it works; that’s how it’s always worked.

“What did you call me,” he says, and his voice comes out lower and softer than he means for it to.

Even in the half-dark he can’t miss the way Sebastian’s eyes go wide, the way his gaze darts away. Sebastian licks his lips and his hands twitch at his sides. “I—” He swallows; Conner watches his throat bob. “It’s—it’s a joke, I didn’t mean—”

Conner waits him out.

Sebastian’s blushing. “I—” he starts, and then his mouth works like he’s trying to form the words.

“Look at me,” Conner says quietly, and Sebastian’s eyes snap to him. For a moment Conner spares a thought for his alternate-universe counterpart, and how he must be handling the Sebastian that Conner had once known, because he thinks he knows what’s going on here. “What did you call me?”

“D-Daddy,” Sebastian says. Something curls in Conner’s gut at the word. It would be so easy to ignore it. Conner wants to put his hands on Sebastian’s face, feel the warmth there, but he keeps them at his sides, patient. “The—other you—he would, ah. Call me brat, and baby.” Sebastian’s fingers twist in his sweats again. “Because, uh.”

“Because y’all were fucking,” Conner says, and is surprised by how steady his words come out. “I’m not him.”

“I know,” Sebastian says, and doesn’t look away. “But you’re a lot like him, so. I joked, and stuff, and I can stop if—”

“No,” Conner says. “No. You don’t have to.”

“I—don’t have to,” Sebastian repeats, but it comes out like a question, tilting up at the end. _I—don’t have to?_

The automatic lights on the porch flick on as Conner shifts his weight, casting Sebastian in a warm orange light. He’d always thought Sebastian was beautiful, in a sort of untouchable way, always out of Conner’s grasp. Now—now, knowing… that, about his alternate self, knowing that he could hold onto Sebastian, even if he wanted, even if it was just for now—“You fucked,” Conner says, slowly. “Multiple times?”

“I—didn’t count,” Sebastian says, which means yes.

“And it made you feel good?”

Sebastian snorts, although he’s still blushing, all the way down to his neck. “Why do you think I lost count? Yeah, it felt good. You have a fucking enormous dick. Really living up to the sayings about Texas.”

Conner will choose to ignore that. “Then yeah,” Conner says. “Say it again.”

Sebastian licks his lips again. Stares at Conner with those pretty eyes of his. “Yes, daddy,” he whispers, and here—far away from the lights of the city—the only person it’s meant for is Conner— _him,_ not the other version of him; and there’s something heady in that, something intoxicating. Sebastian’s pretty hands are fisted on top of his thighs; his sweats are slowly but definitely tenting.

“Good,” Conner says. His pulse races in his throat, his ears. He feels too big for his skin, clumsy and awkward; he knows, hypothetically, what he’s supposed to be doing, has jerked off to a half-dozen pornos of this, but hasn’t put it into practice before. Fucked people, sure, men and women and people who fit neither description, but not—not this. Of course it would be Sebastian Telephone, he thinks, a little deliriously. There had always been something special about him. Conner shifts again, rearranging; Sebastian watches him like a hawk. “Come here, baby.”

Sebastian shuffles over, biting his lip. Conner pats his lap once, to punctuate the command; Sebastian swings a leg over Conner, straddling him, knees splayed. Sebastian puts his arms over Conner’s shoulders. He’s heavier than Conner expects—dense with muscle—but the weight of him is good, grounding, a reassurance: Sebastian Telephone, alive. “Yes, daddy,” he says, sweet and soft and pleased.

Conner is definitely not imagining the tent in Sebastian’s pants, or the way Sebastian half-rolls his hips as Conner runs his hands up the insides of Sebastian’s thighs, the way he bites his lip. Conner keeps one hand on Sebastian’s thigh, thumb pressed into the crease of his hip, and with the other hand cradles Sebastian’s face, pulls him in for a kiss.

Sebastian bites, which isn’t surprising. “Behave,” Conner says against Sebastian’s mouth, half-gentle half-warning, and Sebastian’s eyes close. “Be good.”

“’M good,” Sebastian says.

Conner doesn’t dignify that with a response, just pulls back a tad to watch the way Sebastian’s eyes flutter open, mouth curving downward in disappointment, and presses two fingers against Sebastian’s lower lip. “You know what to do,” Conner says, and Sebastian takes Conner’s fingers into his mouth. Conner’s half-hard in his jeans just from the feeling of Sebastian’s mouth around his fingers, tongue rolling against them, eager and sweet. How pretty would Sebastian look, on his knees, hair a mess from Conner’s hand in it? Mouth red from wrapping it around Conner’s dick, voice wrecked as he asked Conner to _please fuck me, daddy_ , and it doesn’t take long for Conner to decide that he would indulge Sebastian as much as Sebastian wanted him to and more.

“Pants,” Conner says. “Down to your thighs.”

Sebastian pulls back a little, watches him. “Out here?”

“Nobody comes down this way but me,” Conner says. “And you, now.”

“It’s not because I have a problem with it,” Sebastian says, and shoves his pants down to his thighs. He’s not wearing anything underneath, because of course he’s not, coming around these parts and calling Conner _daddy._ “I don’t mind.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Conner says, and runs a finger over the head of Sebastian’s pretty dick, hard and curving up toward his belly. There’s a bit of moisture there already. “Pretty boy like you.”

Sebastian’s hips jerk; his hands come to rest on Conner’s shoulders, curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. “Daddy,” he gasps, forehead pressed against Conner’s. “Daddy, _please_ —Please touch me—”

Conner wraps his hand around Sebastian’s dick. “Good boy,” he murmurs, “asking for it,” and indulges Sebastian, loosely jerking him off. With his free hand he palms the bare skin of Sebastian’s ass. Everything is so warm, soft; the night hasn’t grown cold yet, and even if it did Conner has a pretty boy on his lap. He kisses Sebastian again, just for the hell of it, and Sebastian kisses back, sweet and half-desperate, and Conner can’t bring himself to reprimand Sebastian again even if it does have a hint of teeth. They are both here, and they are both touching, and that is good enough; there is nothing perfect in this world but the night is warm and Sebastian Telephone is kissing him and that will do.

Sebastian is leaking over Conner’s hand. Conner tightens his grip a bit, just to hear the whine Sebastian lets out, and kisses Sebastian’s cheek, lets Sebastian mash his face into Conner’s shoulder, hands tight in Conner’s shirt, half-begging for more, a litany of _daddy_ and _please_.

And then: Sebastian pulls back, just enough for Conner to see his wild eyes, his bitten-red lips, the deep red flush to his cheeks. “Daddy, I’m gonna come, please can I come—”

“Yeah, gorgeous,” Conner says. “Any time you want.”

Sebastian’s orgasm is not fast or rough; it’s slow and soft, Sebastian whining against Conner’s mouth as Conner works him through it, his other hand rubbing Sebastian’s back as he twitches. Conner isn’t one to let his mouth run, but he murmurs praise back to Sebastian: calls him a good boy, perfect, gorgeous.

After a moment Sebastian swats at Conner’s hand; Conner lets go, wipes his hand off on his own shirt, and holds Sebastian in a one-armed hug as Sebastian breathes. It’s properly night, now, stars glittering in defiance of the city in the distance, and Conner searches the faint pinpricks of light, hoping—praying—for one of them to fall to the earth, so he might wish for a miracle: _do not let Sebastian Telephone die tomorrow_.

But the stars are cold and quiet, and do not deliver any miracles. The miracle is them, now: their existence, their life, the press of Sebastian’s forehead against Conner’s clavicle and the warmth of his breath, the slight trembling shudder wracking through his body. Conner does not let himself acknowledge the bruise on Sebastian’s shoulder as he tilts Sebastian’s chin up to kiss him one more time, sweet and soft and slow.

“What about you?” Sebastian asks when they break apart.

“In time, baby,” Conner murmurs, and chances one more glance at the stars that he knows will not answer. “We have all night.”


End file.
